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Better Than That
by Treacle_A
"Hot hate is twin brother to hot love."
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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On the worst days, his voice is like her father's.
He never had too much to say for himself, but maybe that's why everything he did say has always stayed with her so clearly. Why she still remembers the exact phrasing, the expression on his face the day she told him she was going into medicine.
"You have any idea what kind of commitment a career in medicine takes? What kind of dedication?"
A slow solemn shake of the head.
"I'm just not sure you have what it takes Ally..."
For so long he had haunted her. During all her years in school, before every final. Every time she aced a test it seemed as if his voice should be fading, but it never did. Only after she'd gotten her license did anything change, but by then it was too late. Allison Cameron graduated third in her class, beat out fifty others for an internship at The Mayo Clinic and the only support she ever received from her father was the check his lawyer forwarded to her the week after he died.
She tries not to think about him anymore. Tries not to see his face, let his words burrow under her skin like worms. But today. Today the staccato tapping of House's cane has sychronised perfectly with the pounding pain behind her right eye and, no matter how hard she tries, how much she wants to, she cannot block him out.
He hisses at her: "Think goddammit! Use your brain! How much are we paying you!!"
And something twists in her insides: bile and a tired, fierce sense of injustice.
"Not enough for this."
His eyes burn into her, but she does not look away. Underneath the desk, her fingernails press into her palms like blunt little knives, the tendons in her wrists strained to snapping. House's movement has stilled, a snake paused before striking, but her gaze does not waver.
"Well then. Maybe it's time you thought about accepting that last offer from Jefferson."
The air between them feels charged, hot and thick. If Foreman were here, he would speak now. If Chase were here it would diffuse House's anger.
"Maybe it is."
She's half way to the door when he catches her elbow.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Every angle of his face is familiar to her, every twitch, every pit and crease in his lined cheeks. His body is turned into her, his eyes narrow with annoyance. She can feel the poison roiling inside her, burning the back of her throat.
"I'm going somewhere I don't have to listen to your bullshit."
His lower lips thins, and the fingers on her upper arm tighten.
"Any other day, this would be funny. But not today. Sit down."
He is beyond angry. Beyond exhaustion. The shadows under his eyes are the colour of old leather, snapping the blue out, pulling her gaze back to his. She swallows and feels the anger that was licking at the edges of her fall away to ash, crumbling to the floor.
"Look...I'm tired..."
"Sit down," he says again, but his hand slides. His thumb traces the inside of her elbow.
His head drops on his neck. It's just an instant, but she sees it. A warm breath leaves his body and she feels it on her throat. Through the open collar of his rumpled blue cotton shirt and the hollow of his throat pulses.
The file is still open on the desk and when she sits down in front of it, it's like no time has passed. He steps back into position and they resume. His question, her answer. His request, her aquiescence. When she stands again everything that is between them has shifted: dark to light, poison to wine. He clears his throat.
"Jefferson's path lab is a joke," his eyes shift, to the coffee machine, back again. "And Yule can't delegate for shit."
"I'm not interested in Jefferson."
She opens the door and he says something, something she cannot hear, but for the first time ever he repeats himself when she asks him too.
"I said...you're better than that," he says.
FIN
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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